


A Port in the Storm

by Lemon_Drizzle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Nightmares, post-TFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Drizzle/pseuds/Lemon_Drizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine all three of them having nightmares, though. Rey, because of the vision. Finn, because of the brainwashing. Poe, because of Kylo’s Force-torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Port in the Storm

Imagine all three of them having nightmares, though. Rey, because of the vision. Finn, because of the brainwashing. Poe, because of Kylo’s Force-torture.

Imagine Poe lying in bed in his single room in the barracks, one hand under his pillow and the other on his chest, counting the dots in the ceiling tiles by the light of the lamp he never seems to turn off, rather than close his eyes and try for some shaky, dark semblance of a dream. He’s not a lucid dreamer–he has no control there. His superb reflexes and what some may call his reckless bravery mean nothing in his unconsciousness. The fear, the guilt, the worthlessness–he can’t fight any of it. He doesn’t need but a few hours of sleep a night anyway, so he can doze for a bit in his cockpit in between morning and afternoon drills. BB-8 is a good lookout.

Imagine a soft commotion at his door. He sits up, not quite panicking but close, he must’ve dropped off, what is it, what’s found him, what’s on the other side of the door.

Imagine the panel slowly sliding up, and before he can finish his regret that his blaster is with a weapons mechanical being re-calibrated, he sees a silhouette that is most definitely Finn. He realizes he isn't dreaming, gets up and crosses the small room, and steps aside to invite him in.

Imagine Finn waking up in a sweat and fumbling for a switch beside the bed to turn on the light, and when he’s sure he’s not going to vomit, he gets a good look at his room and doesn’t recognize it at first. This isn’t the cold, sterile containment cell troopers find themselves in after reconditioning. He sees stone, and dirt, and–is that a root? FN-2187 looks down at his body and doesn’t recognize the clothes eith–no, that isn’t right. That isn’t his name anymore. He’s called Finn. Someone gave it to him, when he saved their life. He’s not a stormtrooper anymore–he’s with the Resistance. But he can’t remember who gave him the name.

Imagine his eyes falling to the worn and faded flight jacket on a hook by the door. He bolts to his feet, exits his room, and tries to remember the way to the pilots’ quarters. The someone who named him, the someone whose life he saved, the someone who became his first real friend–his name is Poe. Poe Dameron.

Imagine the two men on Poe’s just-wide-enough bed, hands on relative chests and under the just-wide-enough pillow. Finn is next to the wall, his entire right side touching Poe’s left. They’re comfortable. They’re almost at peace.

Imagine a knock at the door. The men lift their heads, and Poe calls to whomever it is to come in. Not that they were doing anything more than just lying next to each other, but any fraternizing between the two wouldn’t exactly be against regulations anyway. (Maybe Poe has looked it up.)

Imagine the door sliding open for the second time that night, and they see a dark form looking back and forth down the hallway. Her hair is tied in three small loops down the back of her head. Poe and Finn have often wondered between themselves if Rey even lets down her hair to bathe.

Imagine Rey hunched over her desk rebuilding something small yet oh, so important in replacing certain “enhancements” in the Falcon. Her eyelids become harder and harder to keep open. But she can’t sleep–rather, she can’t let herself sleep. She can’t let herself see the everlasting night, and the rain, and the war, and the death…and be unable to fix it. She’s a scavenger, a mechanic, and at best a pilot. What is the Force to her, and why does it have to be her shoulders crushed by the weight of the galaxy?

Imagine her tossing down the machinery and soldering iron, grabbing a poncho because it gets even more chilly in the underground barracks than it used to do on Jakku after sunset, and starting through the tunnels toward Finn’s room. But she stops short before she even gets two doors down, sensing that Finn isn’t in his new accommodations, now that he’s out of the medically-induced coma and has been released by Dr. Kalonia. She smiles sadly to herself and turns around, setting off again in the direction from which she has come. She knows exactly where he is.

Imagine the three of them on their sides on Poe’s just-wide-enough bed. Rey is next to the wall, her wrists crossed over her chest. Finn is in the middle behind her, one arm on hers and the other across his body on his hip. And Poe is behind him, one arm under the others’ heads and the just-wide-enough pillow and one hand over Finn’s on his hip.

Imagine them not asleep, but close to it. At ease. Almost safe. The lamp is still on, always on, but together, they’re a little less afraid of the dark.

On second thought, don’t imagine any of that.


End file.
